


leach the marrow from the bone

by batyatoon



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Captivity, Continuity What Continuity, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Prompt Fic, Sort Of, Torture, Whump, just a scene, not a complete story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-27 02:48:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17758346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/batyatoon/pseuds/batyatoon
Summary: Thaumavore.(noun)An animal or lifeform that feeds off of magic or magical energy as the main part of its diet. From Ancient Greek θαῦμα (thaûma, “magic”) + Latin vorare (“to devour”).It's a bad time for everybody.





	leach the marrow from the bone

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written for a Secret Santa fanworks exchange on a CR discord server. My recipient asked for whump; the earlier line of discussion that I chose to take as a prompt was [paraphrased]: "Imagine how good of a target the Mighty Nein would be for some creature/villain that drains magic from people."
> 
> There is no particular point in continuity where this goes, except that it's after Caduceus joins the party and most probably prior to any of the subsequent major backstory reveals; I wrote it sometime between Episodes 43 and 46. (And updated one crucial detail in light of Episode 49.)
> 
> Many thanks to my beta reader and to the folks who helped with the Zemnian.
> 
> * * *

Caleb’s not sure how long he’s been here.

\-- Well, there are two ways he could mean that, but they’re both true. He’s not sure how long he and the others have been here, imprisoned in the mountain lair of the two creatures (which he still can’t identify despite ample opportunity to study them, stupid, he should _know_ this). Many days, at least. Weeks … it could well be weeks, by now. Could well be.

And he’s not sure how long _he_ , himself alone, has been _here_ , manacled wrist and ankle to the table where the creatures like to feed, instead of with the others in the little stone room under the null-field. How many hours he’s been here this time, feeling the magic being drained out of him like …

It’s not really that much like being drained of blood, at least so far as he remembers from that one hideously memorable training exercise years ago, apart from the terrible feeling of gradually growing weaker. This is more of a _drawing_ sensation, like his soul is being gradually pulled out of him through a fine mesh and twisted into thread, continuing long past the point where his throat gives out from screaming.

He’s still making a noise, he notices distantly, hoarse and rasping, rising intermittently as the pain swells and ebbs. That’s really not wise of him, he knows. He should stop that. He could damage his throat permanently if he isn’t more careful, and he’ll have only himself to blame if that happens. It’ll mean scraping up enough money to pay a healer to cure the damage before he can cast verbal spells again --

 _And there you go, thinking you’ll get out of this_. The voice in his head is dry and contemptuous, impatient with his stupidity as ever. _How precisely do you plan to do that?_

The fresh pain of jolting movement tears a ragged sob of relief out of him; it means they’re done eating him for now, and one of them is dragging him back to the cell. If this follows the pattern of the last two times, he'll be able to see again in a few minutes, and to speak (with some difficulty) shortly after that, and the shaking should stop within the hour.

He can hear Nott snarling and cursing at their captors as he's hauled in and deposited on the floor, thrashing against her bonds and spitting empty threats. She’s been doing this every time they take him, which is why she’s the only one still tied up; he doesn’t want to think about what they might do to her if she gets loose, or if she manages to bite one of them again. _Shhh_ , he tries to tell her, _alles ist gut, ganz ruhig_ , but it's too soon still and he can't yet shape the sounds coming out of him into words.

Someone's lifting him up off the cold stone floor, carefully, trying to jostle him as little as possible; someone's gathering him close, a warm body supporting his aching back and shoulders, gentle arms holding him through the twitching and trembling.  He knows he doesn't deserve this, shouldn’t accept this, but he's too weak to pull away.

(Too weak in more ways than one: he’s too exhausted, too hurt, too drained to make himself even _try_ to pull away. Too weak to want to.)

There's someone saying his name over and over, _Caleb, Caleb_ , tearful and frantic.  _Mother_ , he thinks blurrily; and then _no, Astrid_ ; and then _no, Jester_.  And then, minutes later: _of course Jester, Astrid doesn't know that name._

 _Getting worse every time_ , somebody else says, very far away.

Slowly, slowly, the dark fog of pain is receding, enough to let him make out dim shapes at a distance and some details at very close range. Such as the arm around him: gaunt and wiry, covered in fine silver-grey fur and the ragged remains of a trailing white sleeve.

He shifts a little, draws a shaky breath, manages to rasp out the word _wasser_ on the second try.

“Oh, hey,” murmurs Caduceus, his deep rumble as warm and soothing as his solid frame, the muscle and bone of him. “Look who’s back. Miss Beau, could you bring the water over here? Yeah, thanks. Water’s coming, Mister Caleb. You’ll be fine.” The calm cheer that’s always in his voice is … still there, but worn thin with exhaustion and strain.

Beau blurs into view nearby, holding the crude stone cup of water up to his mouth, tilting it carefully.  He swallows a few spoonfuls -- it's cold, both stinging and soothing his abused throat -- and stops so he won’t vomit it up again, and sags back shivering against Caduceus’s chest to wait it out.

Other faces swim out of the fog, real or imagined, peering down at him. Yasha, pale and grim, is probably real; so is Fjord, haggard and drawn from his own interminable sessions on that table, although Caleb's not sure whether the sick worry in his eyes is real or not. He decides Jester must be real when he feels her hand brush the sweat-sticky hair away from his forehead, even though she's gone in the next moment.

Shakaste isn't really here, he's almost sure, or Master Ikithon. Neither is Molly, though he can't remember why.

At some point (minutes later? hours? -- he should be able to tell, but his mind still feels numb and cobwebby; he thinks maybe he’s been asleep but he isn’t sure),  a small warm weight settles against his side, and he hears Jester whisper “There you go.” His hand goes out automatically, unsteadily, and lands on tangled hair and a tiny bony shoulder; it’s Nott, burrowed against him, silent and miserable.  Jester must have carried her over, he realizes dimly; she’s still cocooned in rope from her chest down to her ankles, the knots all sealed with lead to keep any of them from untying her.

(He could have it off her in seconds, if he had a scrap of magic left in him.  If they weren’t under the null-field, which he knows he’ll be able to feel slowly closing down on him as his magic comes back. If he weren’t wholly useless.)

Weak tears prickle under his eyelids, and both his hands feel too impossibly heavy to lift and wipe them away.


End file.
